Pilgrim
by Cesario21
Summary: Set after the end of POA. Lupin goes wandering, and Sirius finds him. (pre-slash)


Pilgrim  
  
by Branwyn  
  
I see the Headmaster in the Map as he makes his slow way through the castle to my office. He is coming to inform me that my coach has arrived. I dread his coming; I dread his farewell; I feel sick as I anticipate his kindness.   
  
He is Albus Dumbledore, and Muggles will mistake him for God or the King in a few years' time.   
  
I am Remus Lupin, a masterless stray; for I have betrayed him, and now I am leaving Hogwarts.  
  
I never resented Lucius' son-or Lucius himself, for that matter-scorning my shabbiness. There is something inherently suspicious about a man with only one bag to pack, as though he is ready at any moment to bolt. Sirius used to say that he envied me; that after we left school he was going to pack a single light bag and we were going to trot the world together, scavengers and nomads.   
  
The grindylow tank is a bother, and I would leave it behind except that I know I will need to sell it before long. Dumbledore paid me far more money than I deserved, coming to him as I did with no references and no qualifications save my Hogwarts education. Nonetheless, I do not know when-if-I will work again, and my savings will need to last.  
  
If nothing else, I will want to be able to send Harry his birthday present this summer.  
  
Harry bursts into my office at full speed, breathless and panting. I smile and play the teacher with him for a few minutes. His distress is charming.   
  
I return the Map to him like a parent who hushes a child's crying with a favorite toy. When Dumbledore arrives I am immensely grateful for Harry's presence, as it curtails whatever parting comments he may have planned. "I feel quite sure we will meet again," I say to Harry.  
  
"You're the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had!" Harry says miserably, no doubt remembering the class period he endured under Snape's tutelage. I smile and make my exit, leaving Harry and Dumbledore alone together. I walk quickly, as I've another stop to make before I will have done here.  
  
"I'm going now, Severus."  
  
I manage to hide my pleasure when he whirls on me, looking guilty and smug at exactly the same time. "I thought you'd like to know."  
  
"It's got nothing to do with me." He recovers himself admirably. "If I had any say in the matter, I would keep you where I could see you. Wherever you go, Black is certain to follow."  
  
"Oh I don't know about that, Severus." I am all civility. "Think about it for a minute. For whom did he risk life and limb coming back to Hogwarts? Not for me." I wait a minute as his eyes, fixed on his desk, become still. "Nor for you."  
  
His head snaps up and he looks at me. "What precisely is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Nothing, Severus. Except that thirteen years in Azkaban taught him to move on." Now he is pale. "What did they teach us, would you say?"  
  
"Get out." He turns his back on me and heads in the direction of his office.  
  
I watch him until he disappears through the door and slams it closed behind him.  
  
I dislike traveling, I think, because I have never had the occasion to anticipate my arrival with any joy. Often, as is now the case, I do not know my destination at all. I have given the driver six galleons and told him to carry me as far as I can get on that amount of money.  
  
The coach is high in the air now and I am looking down at Hogsmeade, down on the roof of the shrieking shack. I remember last night; I remember the four hours I spent with Sirius. Four hours after thirteen years, neither one of us recognizable as our younger selves.   
  
I watch the darkening shapes and avoid dangerous thoughts.  
  
When the coach touches down I climb out into the twilight of a desolate Muggle village, a place where I will certainly be required to change into a pair of, Godric help me, itrousers/i before I am seen by native inhabitants.  
  
I had hoped to dispose of the grindylow tank while I was here, but I doubt I will manage to do so unless the villagers keep trout for pets. I had looked for the sale to pay my passage to Diagon Alley; it seems I will walk instead.  
  
A pity the tank is not quite large enough to sleep under.  
  
And certainly, I think, too small for two people.  
  
Sirius stands in the distance, a dark, skeletal slash against the grey sky. Something of the dog lingers in the stride of his long, loping legs as he approaches, hands motionless at his sides as though he has lost the habit of using them. There is no hesitation or uncertainty in his manner. No suspicion that a reunion without recrimination is impossible, or that I will not be able to forget my guilt long enough to accept the hands that cup the back of my head and draw my mouth down to his.  
  
"I tracked you," he breathes into my hair.  
  
"I'm glad," I would say if I thought he was listening.  
  
I knot my hands around his neck, and try to quell a flood of inappropriate gratitude. His eyes do not leave mine. They are calm and devoid of memory. They do not see anything clearly. That is how I am able to bear their weight.  
  



End file.
